


Much May Be Said

by Brightbear



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-21
Updated: 2010-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:52:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brightbear/pseuds/Brightbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which one weary traveller is called upon to aid another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Much May Be Said

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElDiablito_SF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/gifts).



> This is very heavily skewed towards book-verse rather than movie-verse. Hope you enjoy :)

While much may be said of inns, innkeepers and their ilk, there is no doubting the relief they bring to men who have travelled long and hard. The lone traveller who crested the hill, without horse or servant, was near to overcome by the feeling. His travelling clothes were of good quality but had been long used. A sword hung from his belt and there was an ease of movement in his feet that spoke of years of swordplay. His wrist was swathed in a cravat that had been made to act the part of bandage. His injuries were few but had bled copiously, stopping just as the inn came into his sight.

He staggered, then recovered. His eyes were set upon the inn as each step brought it closer. He was near enough to see when the front door of the inn opened and a scrawny boy appeared. The boy quivered in the doorway a moment before speeding towards the approaching man. The man paused a moment, his able hand alighting on his sword hilt. Seeing this, the boy slowed to a more moderate pace as he drew close. The boy attempted to remove his hat but knocked it clear from his head instead. He scrambled to pick it up from the dirt before addressing the man.

"Forgive me, sir," said the boy, cringing as if a blow was about to land. "But might you be Monsieur D'Artagnan?"  
The man's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. His expression was impassive but even the lack of a response was enough to encourage the boy.  
"Or perhaps Monsieur Aramis?" enquired the boy hopefully.  
The man did not reply and the boy shuffled nervously but persevered.  
"Monsieur Porthos?"

The boy received no reply.  
"Please, sir," said the boy plaintively. "Only a Monsieur Athos has boarded himself in our wine cellar. He is injured but trusts no one and refuses to come out until he is met by one of Monsieurs D'Artagnan, Aramis or Porthos. The innkeeper is afraid he will die in there."  
"Very well," said the man, finally. "We shall go in and see if I am to his liking."  
"Thank you, Monsieur," said the boy. "Oh, thank you."  
"What is your name, boy?" asked the man.  
"Peter, sir," said the boy.  
"Lead the way then, young Peter."

Peter guided the man down the road to the inn and through the front door. The man watched carefully about him, sharp as an eagle. There were few customers in the inn but more than a handful of servants, righting overthrown chairs and tables. They had the wide-eyed look of those who have witnessed an extraordinary sight and have yet to fully remember their accustomed routine. A harassed looking innkeeper, traces of wine soaked through his ample shirt, rounded on the pair with a fierce expression as they appeared.

The man gripped his sword again and spoke.  
"Hold, innkeeper," he said, his tone polite but full of steel. "Let no one act rashly until I have seen what is about."  
The innkeeper grunted and moved aside, allowing the strange pair to proceed down into the cellar under the watchful gazes of all present. The man hesitated briefly at the top of the stair but continued at Peter's eager look.  
The cellar door was not bolted from the outside but rather bowed out from the inside, as if a heavy weight had been placed against it.

"He has barricaded himself in," said Peter, though it was plain to be seen.  
"Your task is now discharged, young Peter," said the man. "Go and sit at the top of the stair until I call for you."  
"At once, Monsieur," said Peter, hurrying away to where he could not overhear.  
The man took several strides toward the cellar door and knocked four times in the rhythm of a dance. A complimentary series of three knocks sounded from inside the door. The man outside responded with two and the man inside gave a final, single knock.

"Athos, my friend," called the man outside, his voice betrayed his weariness. "Surely you could find a better place to rest than the cellar. Your belly may be full but the rest of you will be chilled, I'd wager."  
"You cannot be Porthos, then," called Athos. "He would think no place better than the cellar."  
"Unless it were a brothel," agreed his friend.  
"My friend," called Athos. "Your voice has given you away. You are dear Aramis."  
"Indeed," said the man outside. "I am Aramis and I am weary beyond the telling of it. Let us take a room - if the innkeeper will have us - and sleep until morning."  
"Are you alone, dear Aramis?" asked Athos.  
"Never," said Aramis. "For now you are with me."  
Athos chuckled wearily, "There's a truth we may both swear by."

There was a shuffling and shifting from the other side of the door. Aramis put a hand against the wall to steady himself, breathing carefully as he waited for Athos to clear the door. The shuffling sound ceased but the door remained firmly sealed.  
"Athos?" called Aramis.  
"I am but resting my eyes," answered Athos.  
"My friend, it had best be a moment," said Aramis. "I am too weary to wait."  
"I will endeavour to do my best," promised Athos.  
Another heavy piece of the blockade scraped against the floor. The pressure on the door relaxed but was almost immediately followed by a thud and a groan.  
"Athos?" called Aramis, leaning against the cellar door and finding it unbarred.

The door swung forward at Aramis' insistence and he stepped forward into the room. Four stone steps led down to the cellar floor, where a lantern sat as a lone guardian burned low. Aramis could see the heavy barrels of the innkeepers wines, both fine as liquid gold and so rough and coarse that it laid the strongest men low for a week.

Aramis strode down the steps to where the lantern sat. It cast a pale light through the cellar. The air was cool and quiet. What could be seen of the cellar was crowded with row upon row of barrels, stretching into the darkness. Aramis seized the lantern and shone the light around him. The light revealed that Athos was sat to the side of the entrance, resting between two barrels. Aramis settled himself down in front of Athos, leaning on the same two barrels.  
"Athos," said Aramis gently. "Speak to me."  
Athos looked up wanly into Aramis' face. There was enough light to see the weary smile crease his face. Athos breathed a sigh of relief.  


"Aramis," he said, his eyes closing as if in prayer.  
"Are you dead, my friend?" asked Athos somberly.  
"Dead, dear Athos?" snorted Aramis. "No more than you are."  
"Might we seek another opinion, then?' asked Athos. "For I confess to not quite being certain about myself."  
Aramis laughed and slid forward to rest their foreheads against one another.

"Trust in me, dear fellow," said Aramis, as he raised his hand to lay it against Athos' cheek. "I believe we succeeded in our efforts to distract our enemies long enough for D'Artagnan and Porthos to reach their destination. The King's mission has been completed, and our enemies no longer have reason to pursue us. All that is left is for us to rest."  
Athos met Aramis' gaze once more.  
"You are certain we are safe?"  
Aramis met Athos' lips with a gentle kiss.  
"Trust me," said Aramis. "As you have always done."  
"And always shall," agreed Athos.

They sat together, each soothing the weariness of the other. While much may be said of love between men, there is no doubting the solace and comfort that two weary travellers can share.


End file.
